


I'll Build For You a Home (From My Bones)

by BeautyGraceOuterSpace



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Academy Era, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jim needs a hug, Len Needs a Hug, Pre-Canon, Starfleet Academy, but they also have each other, the boys have issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 14:26:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15511827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautyGraceOuterSpace/pseuds/BeautyGraceOuterSpace
Summary: Len came to Starfleet with nothing but his bones... but Jim? Jim had nothing, full stop.





	I'll Build For You a Home (From My Bones)

**Author's Note:**

> As always a huge thank you to raisinsforsunday for editing this mess into a legible and coherent story and for the gorgeous cover art!

 

 

“ _All I got left is my bones.”_

That’s what he said the first time he met Jim Kirk. Sitting beside him on a cramped shuttle in the sweltering heat, ranting about their imminent and inevitable death as he tried with shaking hands to buckle his seat belt, the bewildered young man next to him tried in vain to soothe his frazzled nerves. He offered his flask, and Jim Kirk had offered friendship in return.

It was like water to a dying man.

They shared the silver container between them until the liquor ran dry, sneaking sips back and forth whenever the officer’s backs were turned with sly smiles and snarky comments.

When the shuttle landed, Jim rose from his seat and gave him a hand up. Slinging his battered knapsack over his shoulder with a smirk, he said, “See you around… Bones,” and then he was gone.

Len made his way from the shuttle soon after, collecting his bags from the cargo hold.He stood with the other clustered enlisters awaiting his rooming assignment, but Jim was nowhere to be seen.

As the weeks went by, he found himself spending more and more time with the kid; even more surprisingly, he found that he enjoyed his company.

He had no idea why Jim Kirk chose him-- grumpy, bitter, dissatisfied with the world around him-- to latch onto for companionship, but he’d be damned if he didn’t appreciate it.

Older than most everyone at the academy-- save the professors, which didn’t help his confidence much-- he had resigned himself to a lonely few years before graduating. Maybe he’d have made a few acquaintances working at Medical, he thought; maybe not. He didn’t particularly care.

All he had left was his bones. His bones, and one smart-ass, meddlesome, sometimes annoying friend.

Seemed like a good deal to him.

* * *

The door to the bar opened with a soft chime of the bells tied to the knob. Len glanced over to see who the new arrival was and sighed. Jim was wearing the same t-shirt.

Again.

The same nondescript grey cotton tee he always wore. Well, the nondescript grey cotton tee he always wore when his _black_ nondescript cotton tee was dirty.

Five months into the academy and Len had never seen him wear anything different. If he wasn’t in his cadet reds, he was in one of those two tee shirts and a threadbare pair of jeans. Occasionally he’d throw on his worn leather jacket if the weather was acting up. If he wasn’t in his trademark day wear, he was in a pair of loose fitting Starfleet Academy track pants. If he was getting ready for bed, he was in either the tee he’d been wearing when they met-- bloodstains adorning the collar to this day-- or shirtless.

How he’d become so concerned with what Jim Kirk chose to wear on a daily basis, he’d never know. If the guy wanted to wear the same thing day in and day out, who cared? He was an adult-- though sometimes he certainly didn’t act it-- and he could make his own decisions. Maybe he just really liked those shirts.

Lord knows Len had had his fair share of favorite clothing items that he’d tended to overwear at times. Jocelyn had always loved his blue button down with silver buttons--

With a pang of self pity for his still recent life change, he looked Jim up and down.

“Nice outfit,” he quipped, turning back to the counter and sipping at his beer, the froth dry and flavorless on his tongue.

Jim looked at him in confusion, his greeting dying on his lips as he looked down at himself, arm still raised in a half wave, leather jacket draped over his elbow. Spreading his arms slightly,  he turned his hips, peering over his shoulder at what he could see of his back and legs searching for whatever might be marring his appearance.

“What?” he asked after a moment, not finding anything.

Len rolled his eyes, waving a hand at the seat next to him and indicating for Jim to sit down. “Nothin’.”

“O-kayyy,” Jim replied in confusion, drawing the word out. “So--”

But Len could still feel that twinge of pain in his chest and desperate to avoid it, he continued, “Do you own _any_ other outfits, kid?” an ugly mocking tone creeping into the question.

He always was an asshole when he was feeling vulnerable. Jocelyn had told him so more than once.

Jim snorted, flagging the bartender with a raise of his hand before turning on his stool to face Len,  leaning on the counter beside him. “Who pissed in your coffee?”

“‘Scuse me?” he replied incredulously, turning to Jim with a scoff.

“What’s got you in such a delightful mood?” Jim rephrased, swiping up his drink as the bartender set it at his elbow.  

_Six month anniversary of the day my wife left me and took my daughter with her._

Len sighed in frustration. “Nothin’, just making an observation. Don’t be so touchy.”

Jim wasn’t being touchy and they both knew it. Len was being an asshole, and for whatever reason he couldn’t stop it. He was itching to pick a fight, and Jim was the nearest available option. He could hear how stupid he sounded even as he spoke, but the words kept falling from his lips like fruit rotting off a tree.

“I’m touchy,” Jim repeated flatly. “Right. Ok.”

Jim refused to take the bait, and it frustrated him to no end. Typically, he marveled at the kid’s patience; their initial meeting had left him with the impression that he was a hot headed idiot who went looking for fights, an adrenaline junkie with little to no self preservation. While that was true to some extent, Jim had yet to pick a fight with him. He laughed off his comments with sarcastic replies and witty half insults, but he never meant a word. Not really.

But damn, did he want a fight right now. Anything to take the edge off of the roiling feelings of inadequacy and sorrow he had been feeling all week; _something_ to redirect his pain and give it an out.

So he pushed.

“I was just asking a question, for chrissakes,” he snarled, relishing the confused and defensive look it put on Jim’s face and simultaneously hating himself for putting it there.

“Look,” Jim said after a long moment, tilting his head towards the door, “maybe we should--”

“I’m staying right here,” Len replied, planting himself more firmly on his stool with a shift of his legs, crossing his arms firmly on the countertop.

Jim was silent for several seconds, watching Len carefully as Len studiously avoided his eye, staring straight ahead and periodically taking forcefully nonchalant sips of his brew. Finally, with a small nod of his head, as if he finally understood something, Jim matched his posture, spinning his stool back to facing the counter and resting his own elbows against the ledge, alternating swigs of his drink with idle, soundless taps of his fingers against the laminate.

The bartender offered a dish of peanuts which Jim politely refused-- “Allergic, thanks though,” and they sat in silence, the too loud music from the speakers in the corner of the room filling the space and making Len feel claustrophobic.

Unable to take the surrounding noise any longer, he bit out, “What are you doing?”

Jim looked around himself as he pursed his lips. “Sitting here. What are you doing?”

“Why?”

With the first sign of exasperation he’d shown yet, Jim replied with a soft sigh, “Why _what_ , Bones?”

“Why are you sitting here?”

Jim shrugged. “You said we were staying here.”

Len clutched his glass tightly in his hand, beads of condensation trickling over his knuckles and causing gooseflesh to prickle at his skin.

“I said _I_ was staying here.”

Jim glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “If you want me to go, I’ll go,” he said. “But I’m finishing this beer first.”

Len didn’t say anything in reply.

Jim nodded again, that nod that implied he understood something-- what, Len had no idea.

After several minutes of silence, Jim’s glass drained, he stood from his stool. Swinging his leather jacket over his shoulders, he clapped a hand on Len’s shoulder and made his way to the bartender, scanning his credit chip with a grin-- too tight, too forced-- and leaving the bar.

Len put his head in his hands with a growl, frustration at himself settling heavy in his chest.

What the hell was _that?_

Jim had done nothing wrong, hadn’t even said a word before he’d decided to go looking for a fight with the poor kid. And over what, his _clothes_ of all things?

As he finished his own glass, he fished his credit chip from his pocket only to be stopped by the bartender.

“Kid covered your tab,” the man said, topping off a drink with a brightly colored syrup.

Trudging back to his dorm, hands shoved deep in his pockets, something his ex-wife had said to him months ago kept going round and round his head:

_I know you were hurting, I do… but maybe if you didn’t push me away, I could have helped. Guess we’ll never know._

Maybe if he’d told Jim what was bothering him.

Maybe if he’d told him it was six months to the day that he signed the papers that changed his life forever.

Maybe if he’d told him that despite the fact that she turned out to be an awful partner for him, something in him still loved Joce desperately and he missed her every day.

Maybe if he’d told him that he’d barely spoken more than ten minutes at a time to his baby girl since the divorce and it was eating him apart inside to know she was growing up-- and probably better off-- without him.

Maybe if he’d said _something_ other than… whatever the hell he’d said back there, Jim could have helped.

Maybe he still had a friend, maybe not.

He wasn’t entirely sure either way.

* * *

It took him two days to gather up enough courage to make his way to Jim’s dorm after classes and apologize. He’d been there several times before-- mostly for studying, sometimes just to hang out-- and it didn’t take him long at all to get there. Jim’s roommate wasn’t home, thank God-- he was a prick on the best of days and he really didn’t want an audience for… whatever was going to happen.

Jim answered his knock immediately, a smile on his face as he opened the door. He had his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose-- frames matching the black t-shirt he wore-- and a stylus tucked behind his ear. His grey track pants were tied high on his waist, the band causing a wrinkle in the shirt layered over them.

“Hey, Bones!” he said, stepping aside to let him in. “What’s up?”

Shocked by the lack of hesitation Len cautiously entered the apartment, stepping around the assortment of Jim’s roommate’s shoes scattered around the small pocket of the entryway.

“Hey,” he murmured, shame from his actions a few nights prior flooding him yet again. “About the other night--”

“Sorry, one sec,” Jim interrupted, closing the door behind him. “Do you mind if we go to my room? I’m not sure when Gary’s gonna come back and I’d rather not deal with him right now.”

Len nodded, following after Jim as he made his way down the short hallway to the left of the entry. As Jim turned to the right, entering the only door on that side of the narrow corridor, it occurred to Len that he’d never seen Jim’s room before. They spent all their time either at Len’s single dorm or in Jim’s common area, if they were at one of their respective residences.

Entering the small, standard issue room behind Jim, he glanced around as Jim settled himself back on his bed where he had clearly been lounging and studying, if the PADD on the pillow was anything to go by.

There was very little in the room. Starfleet provided each of their students with basic furniture-- a bed, a desk, a bookshelf-- and standard issue bedding, but many students either replaced or at least personalized the features of the room with their own belongings and tastes.

Jim had done nothing to the space. The bed was made up with the bland blue and grey Starfleet-issue dressings. The bookshelf held a few traditional bound paper school texts. His communicator was sitting on his desk, illuminated by the soft glow of the built in lamp; the small pocket door closet was closed on the far wall.

No posters. No blankets. No pictures from home or favorite books. No artwork or knick knacks or anything to imply that an individual with likes and dislikes and a personality inhabited the space save for the small, brown hamper in the corner sitting empty.

Another person could move in tomorrow and no one would ever know Jim had even been here.

How was that possible?

“So,” Jim said, pushing his glasses up onto his head as he tucked his legs under himself. “What’s up?”

Len swallowed heavily, blinking back to focus. “Right, uh--” he began hesitantly. “About the other night--”

Jim waved him off. “No worries. We’re good.”

Len’s throat felt tight. “I’m sorry, I was being an ass.”

“Well, I mean, you’re not _wrong_ ,” Jim said teasingly. “But seriously, we’re good. Don’t worry about it.”

For two days, Len had worried that he’d seriously screwed things up with the first-- and only-- friend he’d managed to make in San Francisco. His stubborn pride had kept him away for those two days as he brooded and pouted and tried to convince himself that even if Jim _did_ hate him now, that would be ok.

He hadn’t realized how _not_ ok he would have been if that had been the case.

Jim’s immediate dismissal of his behavior took a weight off of his shoulders and brought a lump to his throat, and, nodding slowly to himself as he tried to keep his composure after a terrible few days, he finally croaked, “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Jim said softly. “I know things have been--” he paused, as if considering his words carefully. “--hard for you. I can’t imagine--” he trailed off, a pause falling between them before he finally decided on, “Trust me, I don’t take it personally.”

“Still,” Len said, running the fingers of one hand along the empty top shelf of the bookcase. “Shouldn’t take my mood out on you.”

Jim shrugged. “Not the first time, not the last.”

There was something weary in his tone, and Len felt a prickling of curiosity and concern over that response. Pushing it aside for another time, he continued his aimless perusal of the room, aware of Jim’s eyes on him as he took in the bare surfaces and empty spaces, but Jim never moved to stop him.

He turned slowly, gently grasping the handle of the closet and sliding the door to the side as he repeated, “I really am sorry.”

“So you’ve said,” Jim returned, a hint of amusement in his voice.

The closet opened fully and Len blinked.

There was nothing in it.

Well, not _nothing_ but damn near close to it.

A single grey t-shirt. A worn leather jacket. A folded pair of threadbare jeans and blood stains on the collar of the only other shirt. Three sets of combat reds tucked into the corner, hung neatly and ready for wear. One pair of boots. A single pair of running shoes, tucked in the box they came in-- recently purchased-- on the top top shelf, laces hanging from the lid.

_Do you own any other outfits?_

Len had come to Starfleet with little to his name; nothing but his Bones, he’d said. He’d given Jocelyn whatever she’d asked for in the divorce: their house, their daughter, half of his financial assets… but looking at the meager assortment of clothing before him, his heart ached for Jim.

He’d brought several bags with him on his initial journey; they’d each been allowed a maximum of three on the shuttle. He’d waited at the loading dock while everyone gathered their possessions before getting their housing assignments. Jim had been nowhere to be seen.

He’d taken his knapsack and vanished.

Over the following weeks, boxes had arrived for Len. Quilts from home. Pictures of Joanna. Books and journals from his time in medical school. Music and trinkets and things that reminded him of home. Things he had hand selected and purchased because they brought him joy.

Jim had nothing.

“Bones-- why are you staring at my closet?”

* * *

It started out small. Jim was at Len’s studying one evening and shivered in the cool night air.

It was miniscule; barely noticeable if one wasn’t watching. But Len had taken to watching Jim. It was clear that he had no one to look out for him, not properly. He probably hadn’t for a long time. So Len had taken it upon himself to do it.

If Jim was going to stick around through his moods and his bitching and his drinking and his problems, then he was going to do the same.

Rising immediately, ignoring Jim’s query of, “Where are you going?” he went to his room, retrieved a hoodie that he rarely wore-- the hood and the drawstrings made him feel suffocated-- and returned, tossing the sweatshirt to his friend where he sat on the floor.

“Um--”

“Put it on,” he commanded. Seeing Jim’s hesitation, he continued, “You’re cold, and I’m not using it.”

Waiting a moment longer, eyes darting between the hoodie and Len, Jim complied, hauling the sweatshirt over his head with a quiet, “Uh, thanks.”

At the end of the night, when Jim was preparing to head back to his own room, he moved to return it. Len stopped him with a raise of his hand between them.

“Keep it. I never wear it.”

Jim protested, but Len didn’t back down.

It took a few weeks, but Jim finally became comfortable wearing it in front of Len. It was clear he had been feeling as though he had intruded somehow or stolen something from him for quite a while before realizing Len wouldn’t have offered to let him keep it if he was going to be upset about it later.

The red _Ole Miss_ sweatshirt became a regular part of Jim’s rotation.

* * *

During one of his regular calls with his mama, she asked about his friend, “That lovely Kirk boy”. Any friend of Len’s was a welcome addition to his mama’s life; always had been.

Still fretting over the recent discovery of his friend’s barren and plain room, he unburdened himself to her, asking for suggestions for what he could do.

He could hear the smile in her voice when she said, “I think I have an idea.” She refused to say anything else.

The quilt arrived two weeks later, blue and white with touches of golden yellow and occasional patches of green, soft and clean and new. The colors flowed and connected in squares and triangles, forming patterns of stars and squares amongst the fabric.

The note on top of the folded blanket said, “For Jim,” his mother’s swirling cursive delicate on the small sheet of stationary.

Jim was confused when he showed up at his door with the large box, leaving him with nothing more than a cheerful, “Care package. My mama seems to have taken a likin’ to you,” before he turned on his heel and went back to his own dorm. He heard the door close softly behind him as he went, smiling all the way.

The quilt was on the bed the next time he saw Jim’s room a few days later, the handwritten note tacked up on a corkboard Jim had obtained at some point along the way. The red sleeve of the sweatshirt poked out from the hamper in the corner.

Jim asked for his mother’s address so he could write her a thank you.

* * *

Len found out that Jim’s birthday had been in January. He’d missed it, obviously, but belated gifts were better than none, so in mid-February he presented Jim with a music player and gift credits to a local clothing store.

He saw Jim wearing at least three new shirts from said store over the next week.

* * *

 Jim mentioned off handedly that he liked an art print hanging in Len’s room, a simple, minimalistic thing that had been hanging in his home office-- when he had an office. Len told him to take it; he had some finger paintings from Jo he wanted to hang, anyway.

* * *

 

When the field botany class Jim was taking assigned each student with a specific plant to study-- and sent said plant home with the student-- Len had taken one look at the sad Bajoran Lilac clinging to life in a small cup, and dragged Jim out to pick a pot for it.

The wooden cylinder he had picked was simple, but contrasted nicely with the lucite of the shelves and desk.

* * *

In May, Len dropped a pen-- he’d always prefered traditional ink pens to styluses-- on his bed and left a dark stain on the sheets. With a sigh of frustration, he stripped the bed and tried to remove the mark, but with little success.

Resigned to the fact that he’d have to buy new sheets or have the stained cloth on his bed forever, he made his way into town to purchase new ones.

When he saw the “two for one” sale, he didn’t even hesitate. Choosing some blue sheets that would nicely compliment the quilt his mama had sent a few months prior, he made his way to the checkout.

Later, dropping the sheets on Jim’s bed with a falsely exasperated, “Who needs two sets of sheets anyway-- but the girl at the store _insisted_ , ‘It’s two for one! You _have_ to grab another!’”

And if he pretended not to notice Jim rolling his eyes fondly with an exaggerated, “Thank you, Bones,” well… that was alright.

* * *

 

By the time the term ended, Len and Jim had already decided to room together the next year.

They applied for a double with a full kitchen, and began the process of packing up their things, Jim helping with Len’s and vice versa.

Packing Len’s room still took longer than Jim’s, but…

There was a full box of clothes. Four shoe boxes, with shoes to match. Another shoe box of music discs Jim had acquired. At least two small boxes of miscellaneous decor. One box of books. One box simply labeled, “bedding” with the Irish star chain quilt folded carefully within, sheets and pillowcases on top of it folded just as carefully.

Len hadn’t bought all of it for Jim; a lot of it Jim had picked up for himself, once Len got the ball moving. Not much-- from what Len could tell Jim didn’t have many credits to his name beyond the small bit of aid he received from Starfleet. Pike’s doing, if he was assuming correctly; Jim didn’t talk about it much.

As they each grabbed a box, preparing to take them to their new place, Jim asked knowingly, “So you gonna stop buying me stuff now that we live together?”

Len, smiling broadly as he turned and carried the box out, replied innocently:

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, kid.”

 


End file.
